


Words Never Fail

by RockingItInAParallelUniverse



Category: Marrissey - Fandom, The Smiths
Genre: Control Issues, Emotionally Repressed, Fluff, Freeform, M/M, Melodrama, Mild Sexual Content, RPF, Very traditional Marrissey story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-09-27 23:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockingItInAParallelUniverse/pseuds/RockingItInAParallelUniverse
Summary: Will Morrissey let down his guard enough to make his dreams come true?





	1. Is This Some Sort Of Joke?

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in 1982. Moz is still sweetly awkward and not spouting racist nonsense. Angie doesn't exist in this one (sorry, Angie). Johnny is unsure of his sexuality but he's not stressed about it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrissey believes he is being punked by neighborhood hooligans

"Steven!"

Nothing angers Morrissey quite like his sister's shrill voice screeching out his given name. He refuses to acknowledge her. She KNOWS he is only to be addressed as Morrissey if she really wants him to answer.

"There's a couple of kids here to see you!"

His anger at Jackie cools, replaced with trepidation over this new development. Surely his reclusive reputation hasn't reached the neighborhood children. He fears this is some sort of game they are playing. Let's dare someone to ring the doorbell and ask to see Steven Morrissey. The first person to crack an egg over his head wins a fiver.

"They're standing in the doorway, Steven. I'm not your answering service," Jackie spews at him as she walks past his bedroom on the way to hers.

Drat. Now he has to face these hoodlums or else they may just wander in on their own, uninvited. Morrissey reluctantly trudges downstairs to deal with what he assumes will be his latest humiliation. In the doorway stand two boys. One is a rather nondescript dirty blond with wavy hair overhanging the collar of his denim jacket. The other shorter lad immediately catches Morrissey's interest. Not only is he dressed like a 1950's greaser with cuffed blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt and leather motorcycle jacket; he is wearing mirrored sunglasses and his black hair is swept up in an enormous pompadour. He could be a skinny cross between James Dean and Elvis, two of Morrissey's idols. He is carrying a guitar case.

Spying no eggs in either of the boys' hands, he cautiously sticks his head out the door and casually asks a one word question. "Yes?"

The black-haired boy's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Then Wavy Hair says, “Um, hullo. I'm Harold and this is Johnny and we heard that you write lyrics and might want to sing?"

Morrissey is puzzled. This still has the potential for humiliation. There might be a group of street toughs hiding with a tape recorder waiting to record him singing and mock his efforts throughout the neighborhood. He tries to come up with a plan to step far enough out of his house to see if he can catch a glimpse of any accomplices. He becomes aware that both boys are staring at him. Oh. They must be waiting for a response. But how can he respond if he is unsure of the actual situation? Two teenage boys don't just materialize on one's doorstep looking for a singer/songwriter. Or do they? Morrissey squints his blue eyes behind his glasses desperate to say something brilliant, witty and appropriate. He decides silence is the best option, taking to heart the old adage that no one will know you are an idiot until you open your mouth and tell them.

Finally, the black-haired boy breaks the silence by coughing then asking, "Can we come in?" As he says this, he removes his sunglasses and Morrissey finds himself staring into two pools of chocolatey brown.

"Of course," Morrissey opens the door wider, ushering the boys into the living room. As he secures the door behind them, he feels his palms sweating. Now, at least, whatever possible humiliation won't be witnessed by the neighborhood, only his sister, if she is even interested. He takes a seat in the blue wing chair adjacent to the two boys who are sitting side by side on the sofa.

"I'm Johnny. Johnny Marr," the black-haired boy says, offering his pale hand to Morrissey who grasps it in a firm handshake, brief, yet long enough to feel the coolness of the boy's palm against his clammy one. "Like Harold said, I'm looking for someone, a singer, to be in my band. Harold heard from Billy, Billy Duffy, that you might be interested. And last night, I was watching a documentary about Lieber and Stoller and how they started out and thought maybe I could do that too, so here I am!"

My goodness, this boy, Johnny, can talk. Morrissey is amazed that the lad didn't pass out from lack of oxygen because there certainly wasn't enough time for him to take a breath in the middle of that spiel.

"Yeah, I'm a friend of Billy's. He is in London, so I told Johnny here I'd come with him to talk to you," Wavy Haired Harold says.

Morrissey turns his blue gaze to Harold. "Are you in the band as well?"

Harold blushes, "No. No I'm not. I just came with Johnny to make sure he found the right house." Harold stands, eager to escape the awkward encounter. "Ok, Johnny. You are in the right place. I'll catch you later. I told me mum I'd be back around...well, now." And Harold makes a break for the door.

"I've brought my guitar so I can play you some of the songs I've written. I'm shit with words so I'm hoping you can help me out with that. Would you like to hear them?" Johnny asks, leaning over the guitar case.

"Let's go up to my room. It's kind of like my office, if you will." Morrissey experiences an unexplainable feeling of relief now that Harold has left. He can give Johnny his full attention. Morrissey leads the smaller boy up the stairs to his bedroom. He takes a seat on the bed, pressing his back against the wall and watches Johnny take in the surroundings. Johnny eyes the life-size cut out of James Dean then moves on to the many shelves of books. He runs a slender finger along one row of spines and smiles at what he reads. Then he spots Morrissey's vinyl collection.

"Do you mind if I take a look?" he asks, hovering longingly over the records.

Morrissey nods,"You can play something if you like." He is calm and aloof on the outside, but inside he is a nervous wreck. What if Johnny laughs at the embarrassingly large amount of '60's girl band pop music? Johnny is probably too cool for that. He probably is into Queen or Led Zeppelin. Morrissey sighs, already disappointed. Why should he care what this boy thinks?He prepares for the ridicule which is sure to follow.

"You've got some great stuff here!" Johnny is excited. He pulls a 45 from its sleeve. Morrissey sees that Johnny has surprisingly chosen the Shangri Las ‘Paper Boy'. He cues it up on the turntable. But it's not their hit song playing, but the B side, 'You're The One". Instantly suspicious, Morrissey watches Johnny smile and begin to sing with the record. He knows every word. Morrissey feels as though all the oxygen in the room has been siphoned out and his lungs tighten as he tries to breathe. Johnny is too wrapped up in thumbing through the record collection to notice Morrissey's distress. Who sent this boy over here? What planet did he fall from?

"It's not often I find someone who's into the girl bands. They are my favorite! The music is so melodic and the guitar sound so clean. Not like that macho shit from the 70's. You know where the bloke has his shirt all unbuttoned showing his hairy chest and he's got those tight leather pants that's got to be painfully squeezing his junk." Johnny turns to Morrissey with a wide smile.

The oxygen returns with a whoosh to Morrissey's lungs and he snorts derisively "Or that God awful synthesizer pop that's on the radio now. As if that kind of thing is the future of music." 

"Yeah. It's not real. There isn't any joy in it, right?" Johnny nods in understanding.

For the first time in years, Morrissey finds himself conversing with someone without carefully considering every word before speaking. Later, he will realize that he was so much in the moment that he can't remember Johnny's side of the exchange verbatim. This will drive him crazy as he lies in bed that night, trying to replay the events of the day. He knows a kindred spirit has found him. He knows he agreed to meet with the boy again tomorrow at 1pm, this time at Johnny's home. But why oh why can't he remember all of Johnny's words? Why does the boy's language escape him? And why is his head filled with visions of liquid brown eyes and jet black hair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where this story is going. It will probably remain light and fluffy because the current state of reality is dark enough.


	2. Just Like Leiber And Stoller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny can hardly believe his luck. It looks like he's found a singer who is just as serious about music as himself. But can Steven Morrissey actually sing? Or write lyrics?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny’s POV this time.

Johnny Marr whistles as he walks home from the bus stop. He can't wait to talk to Joe about Steven. Although their meeting started on the slow side, things really clicked between them after Harold left. Shit, they talked for two hours on the wonders of the Shangri-Las, the importance of pop music and the plight of the working class under Margaret Thatcher. Pretty heady stuff for an 18 year-old drop out. Steven is exactly what Johnny needs. Someone intelligent with a passion for words and music. He races up the stairs to his attic flat to drop off his guitar, then back down a flight to knock on Joe's door.

"Well, Lieber, were you successful in finding your Stoller?" Joe asks with a twinkle in his eye.

Johnny loves Joe Moss like a father. Unlike his real dad, Joe supports and encourages Johnny's pursuit of a career in music. He lets him stay in the attic flat for a minimal amount of rent and gave him a job at one of the clothing stores he owns. Johnny's own father gave him the boot when he quit school. Said Johnny needed a good dose of reality and that freeloaders weren't welcome in the Maher household. So Johnny felt no guilt whatsoever when he legally changed his last name from Maher to Marr. Well maybe he felt a little bit of remorse when his mother found out. And that lasted only a short time until he had the chance to explain to her that there was already a John Maher active in the Manchester music scene and Johnny didn't want people confusing him with the drummer for the Buzzcocks.

"I think I did!" Johnny answers Joe's question.

"Think?"

"He agreed to come here tomorrow with some lyrics. We'll see how it goes."

"We were just about to sit down to dinner. Care to join us?" 

Johnny gratefully accepts the offer, his stomach growling as he inhales the delicious scent of home cooking. Free food was just another perk of his relationship with Joe. The Moss family always includes Johnny as an honorary member.

After helping wash the dishes, Johnny excuses himself from the Moss's. He spends most of the night working and re-working melodies and chord progressions. He desperately wants to impress Steven with his tunes. It never even crosses his mind that Steven could be anything other than an amazing writer. When he was studying the man’s record collection, it hit him like a lightning bolt. Steven was the one. It was no coincidence that Johnny chose that particular 45. He wonders if Steven understood his message. Johnny finally closes his eyes at half past 5 in the morning. He is too exhausted to dream.

————————————————————————————————————

At 12:45, Johnny has switched guitars three times, changed outfits twice and consumed an entire box of peppermints. He is nervous, yet excited. He makes sure the two twin beds in his one room flat are cleared of debris and are mostly presentable. He looks at his watch again. 12:50. He pulls two cigarettes from the pack on his nightstand lighting one while sliding the spare behind his ear for later. He walks to the window, opens it and lets the smoke waft out in a thin, grey fog. From here he can see almost to the bus stop. The street is empty. He inhales deeply hoping the smoke will calm his nerves. At precisely 1:00 he spies Steven walking up the street, a brown satchel clutched to his chest, a long tweed trench coat flapping with each purposeful step.

Johnny crushes the cigarette, places the ashtray on the sill outside the window and fans any lingering smoke from his room by frantically waving his hands. Sooner or later, Steven will realize Johnny is a chain smoker, but Johnny hopes it will be later in case Steven disapproves of smoking. Taking one final glance in the mirror, Johnny rolls the sleeves of his white and red polka dot oxford three quarters up his arms finishing just as the singer knocks on the door.

"Come in, Steven!" he issues his warm welcome as he opens the door. Shit. He must've said something wrong because Steven walks in with a grimace etched on his face. "What's the matter?"

The tall, lean man sighs,"I hate the name Steven."

"What do you prefer? Steve? Stevie?" Johnny tries to be helpful but the man cringes more and more with each nickname mentioned.

"Just call me Morrissey."

"Alright, Morrissey. I totally get the name thing. I had my own last name legally changed from Maher to Marr."

Steven, no, Morrissey doesn’t comment. He just stares blankly at Johnny's room. 

"Have a seat!" Johnny points to the twin bed closest to Morrissey who removes his trench coat and awkwardly sits on the very edge of the bed. "So let's hear your favorite lyric."

Morrissey blushes. "If you don't mind, could you play some of your music first. I have many lyrics. Too many for a favorite. I would like to read something that would flow with your song."

Johnny takes a deep breath and picks up his red semi-acoustic guitar. He knows this is another test that he must pass before Morrissey agrees to be his partner. He stands in front of his guest and begins the gentle, twinkling tune he'd reworked last night. Once his nerves settle, he glances at Morrissey while he plays. The man's mouth is half open and his blue eyes are fixated on Johnny's hands as they gracefully move up and down the neck of the guitar and strum and pick the sparkling notes.

"So what do you think?" Johnny asks with a smile, once he finishes. 

Morrissey is quiet. His eyes flick to the ceiling and his tongue slowly licks his lips. This is not the reaction Johnny was expecting. Watching Morrissey's tongue gives Johnny a funny feeling in his stomach. He's pretty confident the man was enjoying the music but the lack of words creates some doubt. Finally Morrissey speaks. "That was quite beautiful. I also felt some sadness in it. In fact, I felt a range of emotions."

Johnny beams, "So you liked it, then? Did it bring any of your lyrics to mind?"

Morrissey opens his satchel and pulls out four notebooks. He flips through one then replaces it back into the satchel. He finds what he was looking for in the second notebook. Johnny can hardly sit still. He fingers the cigarette tucked behind his ear waiting for Morrissey to show him his words.

"Over the moors. Take me to the moors. Dig a shallow grave and I lay me down. A woman said I know my son is dead. I’ll never rest my hand on his sacred head. Manchester. So much to answer for," Morrissey shakily reads aloud.

"Brilliant! That really captures the, um, well haunting parts of the melody.” 

"You think so?" 

"Oh yes! Can you sing it while I play?"

"I can try."

Johnny plays a brief intro then gives Morrissey a look of encouragement so he will begin to sing. What comes out of the man’s mouth sends chills up and down Johnny's spine. Finally, a person who can give his music meaning and depth, not just screeching nonsense.

"I'll have to work out the tempo and rhythm of the words, of course," Morrissey says when he's finished.

"So you'll do it, then? You'll form a band with me?" Johnny can't keep the excitement out of his voice.

"I'd be delighted."


	3. Friends or Fiends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrissey freaks out over his new partnership.

When Johnny began to play, everything else disappeared. His worry over sitting on the boy's bed, the fact that the bed itself was just sort of floating in the middle of the room without a wall to anchor his back, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke; all of that vanished with those first, haunting notes. Morrissey knew immediately that this was the tune for his lyrics about the Moors murders. But how would Johnny feel about such a dark topic? Would he support a song about the murder of children? Johnny seems like such a happy lad.Yet this music evoked a beautiful sadness. Then Morrissey was filled, or rather stricken, with the thought that none of his words were as quality as the music. 

"So what do you think?"

Morrissey is paralyzed. His answer will determine Johnny's acceptance or rejection. He knows this is possibly the most important opinion he has ever rendered. He cannot look at Johnny and speak. So he gazes at the ceiling, takes three deep breaths, licks his lips and carefully vocalizes his thoughts. 

"So you like it, then? Did it bring any of your lyrics to mind?”

He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding as Johnny smiles his approval. He is emboldened even further when Johnny gushes over his reading of his lyrics. And he puts his soul into his shaky voice as he sings those words in tune to Johnny's beautiful guitar. This is really happening. Morrissey can't believe it. They agree to meet again tomorrow at Morrissey's place. He is so deep in thought that he doesn't remember the bus ride home at all. He is walking on air when he enters his house.

"Where were you, Steven?" his mother's voice brings him back down to earth.

"At a friend's house."

"Linder again?”

“No, mum. Johnny.”

His mother pops her head around the corner. “Johnny who?”

Morrissey sighs. Being questioned by his mother about his whereabouts is utterly pathetic. He is 23 years old, not a toddler. “Johnny Marr. We are forming a band together.”

“Is that so?” His mother’s eyes widen with interest. 

“You’ll get to meet him tomorrow. He’s coming over at 4.”

His mother begins a tirade about friendship and God knows what else. Johnny didn’t have to parade Morrissey in front of his parents. Come to think of it, Johnny appeared to live alone. How odd. A boy of 16 maybe 17 years living on his own? Why didn’t he think to ask Johnny’s age? This is probably why he has so few friends. Oh God. Johnny had mentioned changing his last name. Maybe his parents were horrible. Maybe they were dead. And he hadn’t even bothered to ask.

“I need to make a phone call,” Morrissey cuts his mother off mid-sentence. Well, it wasn’t as though he was actually listening to her anyhow.

————————————————————---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I need your advice, Linder” Morrissey is relieved his friend is home and answering the phone.

“Of course you do. The real question is whether or not you will follow it” she breezily replies.

“I’m being serious!”

“So am I. So what is it? Fashion advice? Do you need to know who is showing at the galleries? Or are you contemplating the meaning of life?

Morrissey is getting frustrated. Linder won’t let him get in a word edgewise.

“Or is it romance? How is the lovely Annalisa?”

“Dear God, Linder. I would tell you if you’d stop talking!”

“Hmmm. By your bitchiness, I’m leaning toward romance. What did you do now?”

Morrissey gives himself a face palm then counts to 5. “This is not about Annalisa. I told her I was asexual and she dumped me and that is the end of that.

“Oh. Bad move. You should have told her you were celibate. Much more interesting. You wouldn’t have to put out, but she could still have hope.”

“This isn’t why I need your advice,” he groans.

“I beg to differ.”

“Look, Linder. I’m forming a band with a boy and I don’t know how old he is and his parents may have been killed in a fiery car accident and I didn’t even bother to ask him anything about himself! Is the situation hopeless?” For once, Linder is speechless. "Linder??"

“Steven...”

“Don’t call me Steven!!”

“Darling, since when do you form bands with strange boys?”

“Since yesterday when two strange boys came to my house.”

“Two? They sought you out? And you didn’t hide or have Jackie get rid of them? The plot thickens.”

“There is only one that matters. The other boy was merely a guide of sorts. And Jackie refused to perform her door guardian duties.”

Linder laughs at this. “Ok. Fair enough. Next question. Since when does Steven Morrissey care about other people’s lives?”

“What do you mean? I care about other people.”

“Balderdash. Last time we talked, I told you I was on the hunt for a new and interesting man, yet you haven’t once asked me about it”

“Oh please. You are always on the hunt for men.”

“Yet you don’t care if maybe one of them might turn out to be a serial killer.”

Morrissey’s head throbs in pain as he tries to follow Linder’s tortuous logic. “I still don’t understand what your love life has to do with me perhaps alienating my future songwriter.”

“Did this boy refuse to speak with you? Did he give you the cut direct?”

“I don’t think so. He’s coming here tomorrow.”

“Then you have a chance to redeem yourself. Ask him questions tomorrow.”

“But I don’t want him to think our meeting is an interrogation! And what if his parents are dead? That would certainly put a damper on any creative sparks. I don't want to come across rude or too nosey. This is a delicate situation, Linder.”

“I can see that now. Be sure to introduce us.”

“What? Why? You aren’t thinking of preying on the lad? Are you?”

“No, silly. I just want to meet the boy who has befuddled Steven Morrissey. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were infatuated.”

“What? No! I’m asexual. Unlike you, my hormones don’t control my life. Johnny is my future! My future career, not anything else your perverted mind could suggest.”

“Ooooh, Johnny, is it? You must let me know what happens tomorrow. I will harass you until you do!”

This is why he spends so much time alone with books. People are simply maddening. Although he realizes it is pointless, he tries to psychoanalyze his interest in Johnny’s personal life once he hangs up with Linder. This has nothing to do with sex. In Morrissey's experience, sex is not the culmination of a relationship. Sex is the end of the relationship. Every time he has done the deed or attempted to do the deed, it ended in disappointment and disgust. Sometimes from his partner, always from himself. His first time was terrible, but he'd heard first times were terrible. But nothing changed the next time or the next time. He expected some feeling of bliss, love, passion or a blinding light of ecstasy. Instead he felt guilt over concentrating only on his own pleasure, dissatisfaction with his partner, or the disappointment from his partner over his performance. He'd kissed men with the same discouraging results. 

He nipped the relationship with Annalisa in the bud. She was beautiful with black hair and pale skin. She was a talented musician who was intelligent and well-read. They could talk for hours.But every time she would touch him, he felt dirty. When they would kiss, he would close his eyes, cup her face, stroke her hair, but he felt nothing like what he'd read about in books.So he told her he was asexual. It seemed his only plausible reality. And she left him. Who could blame her?

All this simply means that his interest in Johnny has only to do with music and dreams of a future.The fact that Johnny is attractive will only help sell their new band’s image. And the only reason Morrissey feels anxious at all around him is because the boy is simply a wunderkind on the guitar and he has to be sure to present only his best lyrics to him. 

Morrissey spends the remainder of the evening locked in his room writing furiously. But his mind keeps wandering away from poignant words about the Moors murders. He stares at the line he has just written. “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the sacred wunderkind”. He just knows that somehow this is Linder's fault.


	4. It's Great To Be Celibate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Morrissey/Marr partnership is taking off like an intergalactic rocket ship. Never mind the sexual tension, innuendos and general ambiguities.

Johnny waits at the bus stop, guitar case in one hand, cigarette in the other. He is quite pleased with the progression of the Moors murders song. He is even more excited to introduce Morrissey to his new tune. Knowing how much they both enjoy the music from the '60's girl groups, Johnny has created a riff reminiscent of the Ronettes. It should balance out the gravity of their first song. He has even dressed to the part:a silk floral shirt, white skinny jeans, black loafers and several beaded necklaces. He styled his hair into a mock beehive and accentuated his eyes with charcoal liner and mascara.

As he finishes his cigarette, he tries to picture Morrissey's reaction to his outfit. He imagines the older man's lips curving into a smile, maybe he'll even be treated to another appearance of Moz's pink tongue. Does he always wear glasses or does he have contacts, too? Johnny thinks the lovable, dorky, intellectual look is cute and all, but wonders if maybe more focus should be placed on the singer's blue eyes. Johnny steps on the cigarette butt and shakes his head. All of this fantasizing about Morrissey is just for the band image. Of course it is. Johnny knows that he feels equally comfortable around men as he does women, both sexes have their appeal. He's only had sexual experiences with women, but he can't deny that he has also felt attracted to men.But this isn’t about attraction. Popular music needs a strong, unique image. A real image. He can picture his slightly (or not so slightly) feminine look paired with a more rugged masculine look from Morrissey. His stomach flips at the thought of the potential just as the bus arrives.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Hiya, Moz!" Johnny chirps happily when his partner opens the door to his home. Morrissey is dressed in jeans, a New York Dolls t-shirt and a blue blazer that really brings out the blue in the singer's eyes, even with his glasses. Johnny approves of this style. He looks to the taller man to see if he notices his own attire.

Morrissey wrinkles his nose at Johnny's greeting. Johnny sighs. He obviously disapproves. He reads the wrinkled nose and lack of polite acknowledgement loud and clear. "What don't you like this time? Is it my hair? The eye make up?"

"No! You look really, uh, good," Morrissey's vocabulary seems to have left the building. "The, um, 'Moz' thing kind of threw me."

"You've got to admit that 'Morrissey' is a mouthful. And Moz seems to fit you. Different. Hip."

"Hip? You must be joking."

A woman interrupts them by clearing her throat. Morrissey rolls his eyes at Johnny. "Johnny Marr, this is my mother, Betty Dwyer. Mother, this is Johnny Marr."

Johnny was ready to extend his hand, but Moz's mum has her hands on her hips. "So Johnny, are you from Stretford?” she immediately begins questioning.

”No. Ardwick.” 

”That’s all the way across town! Do your parents know you are traveling that far? And at your age, too. What are you, about 16?”

”Well, actually, I’m 18. I work a job and rent a small attic flat.”

”You live on your own at age 18?”

”Yes. I figured it was time to make my own way in the world,” Johnny answers, flashing his most charming smile.

Morrissey’s mum seems impressed with his answers. She gives her son a meaningful look. ”Steven, I'm going out for a bit. Do you need anything from the store?"

"No, mum. I'm good."

"OK. It was very nice meeting you, Johnny."

"Likewise, Mrs. Dwyer."

"It's Ms. Dwyer."

"Oh. Sorry. Ms. Dwyer," Johnny says without a hitch.

Morrissey sighs and grabs Johnny's guitar case to carry upstairs. “Your mum's a looker. You definitely take after her," Johnny says, following the older man up the stairs.

"I always thought my sister inherited her looks.” Johnny's compliment zooms over Morrissey's head.

Evidently, it is time to get down to business because Morrissey hands Johnny the completed lyrics of “Suffer Little Children”, the song about the Moors murders. Johnny shivers slightly, reading the words. He isn't sure if his tremble is caused by the words themselves or the brief brush of Morrissey's fingertips against his own. Pulling his acoustic guitar from its case, he carefully strums a song that captures the darkness of the words with a backdrop of beauty. When he finishes, both men stare at each other in wonder.

“Holy shit, that was good! Do you have a recorder here?” Johnny says in amazement.

Moz quickly retrieves a recorder. They tape Johnny’s instrumental first. Then they record the song with Morrissey singing. Johnny’s smile grows wider and wider as they listen to the playback.

”Billy is coming to town in a few days. Can I take the cassette and let him have a listen? He might have a few suggestions for us.” Johnny says. He actually wants to wow Billy with the tape. He believes it nothing short of perfect as is.

Morrissey nibbles on his bottom lip. Johnny licks his own lips in a subconscious response. Finally Moz gives Johnny a nod and hands the cassette over to him. Just as Morrissey is about to speak, the telephone rings. Moz just stares at it. It rings three more times.

“Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

”No. It’s probably for Jackie.” 

”Steven! It’s for you!” Jackie’s voice echoes down the hall.

Johnny quickly asks if he can smoke while Moz picks up the phone. He walks to the window and opens it a crack before lighting up. Watching Morrissey talk on the telephone is amusing. He cups the receiver between is ear and shoulder so he can still talk with his hands. He has very long fingers. Johnny wonders if he can play any instruments.

”Linder, I’m serious. This is not a good time. I will call you back!” Morrissey is blushing furiously as he hangs up on the caller.

”Your girlfriend?” Johnny asks as he crushes his cigarette.

Morrissey turns an even deeper shade of red. “Definitely not!”

”It’s ok if you’ve got a bird. I know you can handle the work with our band and a social life. I mean I know it’s not like all you’ve got going is what we’re doing, right?” Shit. Why can’t Johnny just reassure his partner without sounding like a dick? 

”No, really. Linder is just my friend. I’m celibate,” Morrissey blurts and then cups his hand over his mouth in surprise.

Johnny has considered himself a musician for 10 of his 18 years. In that time, he’s met a lot of wannabe pop stars. Some were out for the whole sex, drugs and rock and roll experience, living fast and hard. Most of the boys his age were in it for money or fame. But this is the first time he has come across a fellow artist who claims celibacy. Johnny is curious. For a brief moment he considers Moz a genius. Although Johnny has enjoyed his forays into the sexual arena, the pleasure is always fleeting. What follows is good, old-fashioned guilt. He blames this on his Catholic upbringing. He knows he should feel something significant for his partners. They did just share each others bodies. But honestly, what he does with these girls is just fucking. There isn't love involved. And he feels somehow cheapened by this experience. There should be more to it than a momentary high. It should feel better and more withstanding than smoking a spliff. Maybe it would be different with a bloke. He hasn't had the guts to cross that line yet. Or maybe he just hasn't met the right person.

“Is it some kind of religious thing?” Johnny asks, because that would certainly change the dynamic.

Morrissey’s stare shifts from one side of his room to the other like a trapped, deranged squirrel. “No. It’s nothing like that,” he mumbles to his chest.

Obviously, the man did not mean to share this with him. “Moz, I’m glad you told me. It means a lot that you feel comfortable enough with me to share something so personal”, Johnny says in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

The older man looks absolutely miserable. “Yes, well, it’s not a big deal, I guess. I’ve recently broken up with a girl and just would rather avoid all of the drama associated with sex.” Morrissey’s face is still fire engine red.

”I’ve a new tune I’d like to play for you,” Johnny abruptly changes the subject. He’s not sure why Moz’s confession suddenly feels uncomfortable. They do have to get to know each other and suffering through a painful break up is worth disclosing. But it still doesn’t help Johnny feel less, well, disappointed? He picks up his guitar and plays with enthusiasm to change the mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I'm trying to update every five days and life is busy at the moment.


	5. Unmitigated Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, sometimes celibacy leads to lust.

He had prepared a mental agenda of how today should run. But everything went wrong as soon as he answered the door. First, Johnny had called him 'Moz'. Morrissey was going to correct the boy only to completely lose his train of thought. Johnny was wearing make up. His brown eyes practically leapt out from under his black-fringed bangs. Dear lord, he was stunning! And Johnny thought he didn't like his looks, as if that could be possible by any human on the planet!

Next, his mother had accosted the boy and most likely insulted him by thinking Johnny was younger than his actual age. Some good did come from his mum's interrogation. Morrissey now knew Johnny was 18, employed, living on his own by choice, and his parents were still on this side of paradise, he presumed. 

Then Linder called. Morrissey’s dream of becoming a pop star was just beginning to percolate when she called and ruined the moment. Johnny thought he and Linder were a couple! And, in an episode of panic, he still couldn't believe it, he told Johnny he was celibate! He could feel the blush spreading from his ears, across his face and down his neck. Who knows what Johnny must think of him now.

Morrissey tries to battle back into the present. Johnny is playing an upbeat song on his guitar. He is smiling. He is beautiful. Morrissey lets out a sigh.

”Was that a sigh of approval or disgust?” Johnny asks, his big, brown eyes blinking underneath his black shaggy hair.

“Hearty approval,” Morrissey answers. Johnny is acting just as happy and carefree as ever. He is absolutely charming.

”Do you have another cassette? I’d like to record this and leave it with you.”

Morrissey goes to his desk and digs through a drawer. He finds a cassette and hands it to Johnny. Their fingers touch and Moz feels electricity race up his arm. The tape clatters to the floor. He can feel himself blushing once again. He bends down to retrieve the cassette, noticing Johnny bending toward it as well. The black-haired boy’s face is no longer pale, but rosy red with a blush of his own. Morrissey stops moving and simply stares at Johnny.

”Sorry about that. It must have slipped,” Johnny says, making sure the tape is firmly in his hand. Then he turns his brown eyes to Morrissey’s blue ones.

Staring into Johnny’s eyes, Morrissey is enveloped by a sense of calm. “And here I thought I was the clumsy one,” he says, his eyes never leaving the younger man’s face.

”It happens to the best of us, Moz,” Johnny says with a shy smile.

"That nickname is growing on me." 

It's not the only thing. He feels an undeniable connection to this boy. Morrissey expresses himself through the written word. Johnny does so through music. Unbelievably, they are both saying the same thing. He licks his lips and turns away as Johnny prepares to record this new, lively tune. He closes his eyes as he listens to the music. He wonders if perhaps his feelings for Johnny are strong because he has isolated himself from people for so long. It is a comforting thought even though, deep down inside, he knows it is false.

Morrissey should be floundering in a sea of despair with all the things that have gone wrong and spiraled out of control today. But he is not. In fact, he is floating in a sea of tranquility. A deep, chocolate-brown pool of tranquility with an angelic, acoustic soundtrack.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After they are finished recording, he and Johnny migrate downstairs to the sofa to watch Top Of The Pops.

”That’s going to be us very soon,” Johnny whispers.

”I hope we’re not dressed like that,” Morrissey says, ignoring the heat from Johnny’s closeness, focusing instead on Adam Ant on the telly.

Johnny snorts.”We’re going to be the best fucking band in the world, and we don’t need any of that shit to do it. Just my guitar and your voice, Moz.”

"A rhythm section wouldn't hurt."

Morrissey is delighted that his comment sends Johnny into a fit of laughter. He is thankful the younger man's eyes are closed so he can let his fondness shine as he drinks in the adorable site of Johnny giggling, curled on his couch.

"I'd never heard you were funny. Everyone told me that Steven Morrissey is a serious writer. He can be brutally opinionated. They had me terrified of you," Johnny says, wiping the tears from his eyes, smearing his mascara.

"Yet you still knocked on my door."

"Yeah. I couldn't let fear stop me from meeting you. I just knew that you were gonna be the person I was looking for. That together we're gonna do something amazing." Johnny is serious now, his face turns to Morrissey’s.

Moz’s mouth feels dry, his tongue thick, but he leans forward. "You're smudged," he says, licking his thumb. He gently presses his fingers against the side of Johnny's face and wipes the dark smears from under his eyes. Morrissey is shocked that he has initiated this intimacy. He tries not to think about how Johnny is leaning into his touch or that desire is pooling in his belly. He drops his hands and faces the telly.

"Let's go out and hear some real music," Johnny suggests, his eyes also focused on the television screen.

"Where?"

"I dunno. One of the gay clubs."

"What?" His full attention is focused on Johnny once again.

"They always have the best music. The other clubs are too stodgy."

"Aren't you worried that people will get the wrong idea about us if we go together?" Panic (or is it thrill?) is rising in Morrissey's chest.

Johnny frowns. "Who cares? They'll know who we are soon enough."

Morrissey really thinks he might start hyperventilating. What exactly is Johnny proposing? Did he feel the same rush of desire? That can't be possible. This is madness.

"Look, Moz. I think our best bet is to do our first gigs at the gay clubs. They're a lot more open to new ideas, especially in music. I just thought we could scope it out, see what it takes to get booked, yeah?"

"Gigs?" Morrissey feels like an idiot. Of course Johnny isn't suggesting trotting him out on his arm at a gay club. This is a songwriting partnership. Platonic. Nothing else. He should feel relieved that this is all about business. "But we don't have a bassist, a drummer or even a name yet." He congratulates himself on the smooth recovery.

Johnny is standing in front of him. "We can talk about that over a few pints." He reaches his hand toward Morrissey to help him up from the sofa. Moz swallows a couple of times before he takes Johnny's hand. He wants to be prepared for the rush of energy that is sure to surge through his body when they touch. A flame ignites in his midsection as his fingers curl around Johnny's warm hand. Thank God he told Johnny he was celibate. Asexual is certainly not the correct word for his current state.


	6. Something Big

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny knew all along that meeting Morrissey would lead to something big. He now realizes he seriously underestimated the size, the scope and the something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - Lots of profanity.

Shit. Fuck. Shit fuck. 

Johnny is still beating himself up over his last encounter with Morrissey days after the fact. He almost kissed the man! And after he had reluctantly confessed his celibacy! Brought on by a break up! With a girl! What the fuck was Johnny thinking? Obviously, he wasn't thinking. Nope. All rational thought dissolved like sugar in hot tea as he watched Morrissey suckle his own thumb then lean forward to caress his face with those long, slender fingers. Jesus Christ.

And then, the look of horror on Moz’s face when he asked him to go out to the club. How could he have misread his partner so badly? Yes, it was an innocent invitation, to see the how to book their band, but Johnny had hoped it could morph into something more. The connection between them was electric. It was almost eerie how their minds functioned together, as if he held a pencil and sketched an outline and Morrissey held paint and filled in with color. It didn’t seem out of the question that the evening could lead to something romantic. Maybe some kissing and hand holding. Maybe more. Johnny shivers.

He has to get a grip on this. He’s at work, for fuck’s sake. This is not the time or place to be turned on. And he’s meeting Billy for lunch in about 15 minutes to listen and discuss their music. He can’t let his mind wander to how great Moz looks when he smiles or the feel of his fingers on his cheek. Fucking hell. Johnny takes off his cardigan and wraps it around his waist. Why didn’t he wear baggy trousers to work today? He looks at his watch and is relieved to see it’s time for lunch.

As he walks toward the pub where he’s meeting Billy, he wonders what is happening to him. Johnny has never, ever been attracted to one of his bandmates before, and he's been in a lot of bands. He usually avoids hooking up with anyone tied to music. He hates the bullshit, macho guitar culture. He doesn’t want to get physical with someone on the sole basis that he’s a talented musician. He’d like to meet someone and connect on a more meaningful level. That hadn’t happened until he met Morrissey. Before that, on some drunken nights, he’d gone home with girls that were clearly using him. So he used them right back. He is not a fan of casual sex, but it's probably better than lusting after your celibate bandmate. 

”Johnny! How’s the new band coming along?"

Billy Duffy is waving to him from a table. It is great to see him. Johnny has always looked up to Billy. He is from the same neighborhood but a few years older. He is the first person he has known personally to actually make it big in the music business with his band, The Cult.

"It's going fantastic. We've got a name, a bassist and a lead on a drummer," Johnny is all smiles and focuses his excitement on the new band developments. They were actually quite productive, despite the mixed signals, while they were out clubbing(or sitting in a quiet corner of the club with drinks, because that's as close as Moz will get to clubbing). Morrissey came up with 'The Smiths' as a name . Johnny really likes it. Nothing is attached to it. A boring, everyday name for a definitely unboring, uncommon group. He found a bloke named Dale who can get them a place to rehearse and he plays the bass. And they will have two drummers audition sometime next week in the new rehearsal space. 

"I have a rough recording of a song that me and Morrissey did. Have a listen." He can't wait to hear Billy's thoughts on 'Suffer Little Children'.

Billy puts the headphones over his ears and presses play. He smiles at Johnny as the intro plays. The smile becomes a straight line, then a frown. Billy closes his eyes, and continues to listen with a very serious look on his face.

"It's about the Moors murders, mate." Billy says handing the headphones back to Johnny.

"Yeah. Bet you've never heard anything like that before, right?" Johnny says with pride.

Billy looks confused. "It's about the rape, torture and murder of little kids. Who the fuck wants to listen to a song about that?"

"You're missing the point. It's avant garde. You know, cutting edge shit. We're pushing the boundaries."

"No one will play that on the radio. I doubt anyone would want to buy that shit." Billy changes his tactic when he sees Johnny's crestfallen face. "The music is really good. Morrissey's voice is good in a weird way. It's the subject matter, mate. That's some fucking depressing shit."

"I still think it's cutting edge, but I see your point. Probably not the best song to release as a single." 

"Now you're thinking like a professional. Push the boundaries, by all means. But you've got to break through to get some airplay first."

Johnny is thoughtful as he walks back to the store to finish his shift. Billy has temporarily broken the spell that Moz has over him. He still thinks 'Suffer Little Children' is a solid song, but that doesn't change the fact that most of Manchester wouldn't be singing along to it. He'll give Morrissey a call once he finishes work. He should have some other lyrics ready. Johnny is excited to hear what Moz has in store for his Ronette's riff. Hopefully nothing else about murdered kids.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Morrissey is on his way over to Johnny's flat with his notebooks full of lyrics. Johnny sits on his bed and smokes. He is thankful for the meeting with Billy. It seems to have reset his brain. He chalks up his earlier delusions about Morrissey as momentary madness and wishful thinking. And, bloody hell, he hasn't shagged anyone in a couple months. Just a bit of pent up frustration. That's all. It's time to focus on the big picture. Johnny figures they need between four to five songs to make a decent demo. 'Suffer Little Children' will be one of them, but definitely not the lead song. 

"So what did Billy have to say?" Morrissey asks as soon as his feet cross the threshold of Johnny's flat. His blue eyes are bright. He's not wearing glasses this time. 

"He thought it was brilliant, musically. Liked your voice. But thought the subject matter too gloomy for popular music." Johnny is tuning his guitar so he won't have to look at Moz while he speaks. He hates to deliver bad news, and he doesn’t want to disappoint Morrissey.

"Of course, it's gloomy. That is the point! Children vanished never to be seen again and no one wants to talk about it. It was a terrifying time to be a child!"

"Yeah. I defended it. We're trying to be something no one's ever heard before. It's supposed to make people think twice. But I understand Billy's point. We won't be hearing people singing along to it in their cars. We need something a little less dark to lead with." Johnny is busy fanning the smoke from his cigarette out the window, double checking his amplifier settings, keeping himself in a blur of motion that won’t allow him to dwell on how hot Morrissey looks right now sitting on his bed. Silence fills his small space. He fidgets with a guitar cable when he hears another sigh from his writing partner. He has no choice but to look directly into the eyes of the handsome, older man .

"You're acting strangely," Morrissey says, quietly. A notebook is opened on his lap. His hands are folded on top of the notebook.

"It's been a long day. I'm fucking knackered is all." Moz has no idea. He struggles to remain safely detached while his stomach starts to clench with desire. 

"I've written words for that riff you recorded the last time you were over, but I'm not sure if I'm ready for you to see them. Here is another idea for a song, though. I pieced this together from different poems I've written over the years." He tears a piece of paper from the notebook and thrusts it into Johnny's hands.

He ignores the burning rush from Morrissey’s touch and takes the paper across his room to the other twin bed. He sits alone and reads it. 'The Hand That Rocks The Cradle'. This is more creepy kid stuff. The words are beautiful, though. He feels like Moz's heart was in the right place trying to protect someone from all the creepiness he writes about, but that doesn't make it less creepy. And it feels like Mozzer kind of lost the point of the song somewhere in all the creepiness. Shit. His own thoughts prove how much he needs Morrissey as a lyricist. So Johnny picks up his guitar and does what he does best. He plays a jangling refrain that sounds a lot like a music box. It's very soothing. He can feel Moz's eyes on him. He knows without a doubt that the older man is staring at him without even looking over to the other side of his room. Johnny keeps his eyes fixed on his guitar. He hears footsteps approaching the bed.

"How do you do that?" Morrissey is kneeling in front of him, his face nearly touching Johnny's guitar. Johnny stops playing and takes a deep breath. God, his hair is so fluffy and he can see the man’s bare chest through the limply hanging blue cotton button-down shirt that is more than halfway unbuttoned.

"Would you like to learn to play?" Johnny asks, looking at the top of Moz's amazing quiff.

Morrissey shakes his head."I'm rubbish with musical instruments. Believe me, I've tried. You can ask my sister how talented I am."

Slowly, Morrissey raises his eyes from the guitar to Johnny's face. Shit. His groin is leaping to life at the sight of the intensity in their blue depths. He is grateful for the guitar over his hips.

"What did you think about the lyrics?" Moz asks, taking a seat beside Johnny. 

"The words are beautiful, Moz," Johnny answers. Morrissey is wearing cologne. He smells sweet and spicy. Johnny would like to find out if he tastes sweet and spicy. No. Stop it. He grips his guitar as though his life depends on it.

"Thank you, Johnny. But what about the subject? Too dark?"

Johnny is not usually a nervous person; he moves through the world with a quiet confidence and dogged determination. He is normally quite open with his feelings and opinions, but Morrissey's hip is resting against his hip, and they are on his bed and Johnny’s heart is racing. But he knows he has tell Moz the truth even if it upsets him. "Something is off. It doesn't sound genuine."

He can feel Morrissey tense. "What do you mean?"

"Please don't take this the wrong way. I like it, but it doesn't sound like you. It sounds like a scary child's tale." Johnny is trying to be gentle with the criticism.

"It's a poem, Johnny. Poetry is fiction. Lyrics are fiction. It doesn't have to sound like me. It can be an act."

"Then it needs to be a better act. Because if I'm not buying it and I think you are amazing; then an impartial audience definitely isn't going to buy it."

"You haven't seen me sing to an audience. You have no idea whether or not I can sell it," Moz snarls, curling his lip on the word 'sell'. "I could tell you your guitar part is empty and bland."

"No. No, you can't." His guitar work is a lot of things, but empty isn’t one of them.

"Oh so now you are superior to me? Are you going tell me you can write better lyrics? Maybe you can change the name of the band to The Smith since you don't need anyone else." Morrissey is losing his temper.

"For fuck's sake. I'm not superior to you. But when you hear me play my guitar, you are hearing me." Johnny turns to Morrissey. He grabs Moz's hand and puts it on his chest. "You are hearing my soul, my heart. I may tweak things to fit better with a song, but it’s still a piece of me. I feel like every time I play or record something for you, I am standing before you naked. It's all me out there and I can't hide."

Morrissey is frozen, staring at his hand on Johnny's chest. "Moz, when I read this song, I'm hearing you sing through a suit of armor. Where are you in it?"

"You wouldn't like what you see if I showed you a song with me in it," Morrissey answers, very softly. His hand falls from Johnny back to his own lap. His eyes are closed.

"Try me. Please.”

Morrissey walks back to the other side of Johnny's room and pulls out a black notebook from his worn satchel. He folds the cover over and extends it to Johnny. Johnny rises to meet him halfway in order to retrieve it. Morrissey remains glued to the floor, staring sightlessly at the wall. Johnny begins reading while he walks back to his bed. 'Miserable Lie - So goodbye. Please stay with your own kind. And I'll stay with mine. There's something against us. It's not time. So goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye'. Johnny sits down as the lyrics turn cruel and sinister. He can feel the writer's disgust, despair, and humiliation. It makes him angry. Very angry. He unplugs his red guitar and pulls his black and white Rickenbacker from its stand. He makes the necessary adjustments and turns to Morrissey who is still standing but is now staring bleakly over Johnny's shoulder.

He begins to play a gentle tune tinged with regret. Then he changes keys and plays a manic jam. It's loud. It's fast. The anger is palatable, sharper than broken glass. A neighbor bangs on the wall and reduces Johnny to silence. He looks Morrissey in the eyes, sweat dripping down his temples and says, "We really need a rehearsal space, mate” because, dammit, the tension is unbearable.

Morrissey claps his hands in applause and shakes his head, a smile playing upon his lips. "You've got that right."

The two men look at each other. Both of their faces register understanding and disbelief. Johnny waits for Morrissey to speak, knowing he doesn't have words to convey what just happened between the two of them and this music.

"You really captured the emotion of the song, Johnny. Even your neighbor was moved by it." They both chuckle at Moz's joke.

Johnny clears his throat. "I could feel you in it, Moz. It made me mad. How could someone treat you like that?"

Morrissey sits back down on the bed. "Perhaps it's a half truth. Maybe it is pure fiction.“

"Well you sure sold me on it. That's what I'm talking about. That is the passion we need to bring to all of our songs." Johnny sits beside Morrissey. He doesn’t believe for one second this song is anything but the truth. He very slowly loops his arm across the taller man's shoulders. Maybe his touch will comfort his partner, his friend, his; dear God, right now, his everything. Moz flinches and draws in a quick breath. Johnny is ready to remove his arm from this attempt when Morrissey sighs and leans in to him, resting his head on Johnny's narrow shoulder. Johnny gently rubs Moz's back, hoping the singer will feel the emotions that he cannot name.

"Is this how it works?" Morrissey asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you guitar gods clairvoyantly translate your singers' lyrics into sound and bewitch their souls?"

"I couldn't say. It's never happened to me until now. And I would argue that the lyrics cast a spell on the guitarist. At least in my case."

Johnny moves his hand from Morrissey's back and begins to run his fingers through the older man's hair. Moz is letting him do this. His heart is bursting. He just wants to take Morrissey into his arms and kiss him senseless. This songwriting partnership is beginning to resemble love.


	7. Words Never Fail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrissey faces his fears and writes an excellent song in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final chapter. Thanks to all who have read the entire thing. I hope you enjoyed it.

It's only been a week and yet Johnny is already tiring of him. Morrissey sits by himself on the far side of the room while Johnny does everything possible to ignore him. Billy must have said something bad. Johnny was probably being kind when he said Billy thought their song was too gloomy. And Moz thought Billy was a friend, or at least a good acquaintance. He did get Morrissey a job as a singer with The Nosebleeds, even though it was short lived. Why can’t he find a place in this world to belong? He knew he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. Morrissey sighs which earns him Johnny's attention.

"You're acting strangely," Morrissey says, unsure if he really wants to hear his partner's excuse.

"It's been a long day. I'm fucking knackered is all."

Johnny is buzzing with nervous energy. He flits around his guitars like a hummingbird. Morrissey decides to hold out on sharing his contribution to Johnny's recording from their last meet up. Those words are too personal and all wrong for a time like this. He instead gives the boy a work he has pieced together from a few of his old poems. The song is almost gothic in its language. Does Johnny like gothic literature? Moz will soon find out. He tears the song from his notebook and hands it to the younger man.

Morrissey does not miss the fact that Johnny does not sit next to him to read it. He studies the furrows in the lad’s forehead as his brown eyes scan the lines of the song. Oh God. He doesn't like it. He finds it ironic that he knows Johnny's expressions well enough in this amount of time to understand this, as sure as he understands that Johnny is purposefully distancing himself. Surprisingly, the boy picks up his guitar and begins to play. It is Morrissey’s song, or rather, his theme of comfort and love in his song. How does Johnny do that? How can he take words and turn them into melodies? He is awestruck, drawn to Johnny and his guitar. He kneels in front of the guitarist and stares at his dexterous fingers on the strings.

"Would you like to learn to play'" Johnny asks, stilling his hands and silencing the instrument.

If Johnny is already mentally distancing himself from Morrissey, hearing his abysmal skills on the guitar would have him fleeing physically in terror. He tells Johnny this(in different words) and gazes at the boy's face. The softness of Johnny's expression startles him. His brown eyes almost have a look of longing in them.

"What did you think about the lyrics?"

He listens to Johnny's empty compliment. Yes, he knows the words are beautiful. He wrote them. But what about the content? The subject matter?

"Something is off. It doesn't sound genuine."

"What do you mean?" But Morrissey already knows what he means. Johnny has called his bluff. The boy can tell he felt no personal attachment to this song. 

"It's a poem, Johnny. Poetry is fiction. Lyrics are fiction. It doesn't have to sound like me. It can be an act."

And then Johnny undervalues him. He has never seen Morrissey sing to an audience. He can't possibly know how long he has dreamed this vision for his life. Every bit of charisma, love and energy will go into this music. He has saved it up for years, sitting alone, writing, hoping, waiting for a Johnny Marr to find him so he can show the world his true self. How dare he question Moz's ability to do so.

"I could tell you that your guitar part is empty and bland." How do you like it, Johnny, when someone insults the thing you believe you were put on earth to do? Not surprisingly, Johnny refutes his comment.

Morrissey is desperate, but he has his pride. He will go down fighting for this. He has to make Johnny see he is indispensable. “You should change the name of the band to The Smith since you don’t need anyone else.” Oh God, did he just say that? Why do his insults and comebacks always sound so much better in his mind? He senses Johnny's frustration. Good. 

Suddenly, Morrissey is jerked out of his mental rant as Johnny grabs his hand and places it on his chest. "I feel like every time I play or record something for you, I'm standing before you, naked. It's all me out there and I can't hide."

He can feel Johnny's sharp breastbone under his fingers. He absorbs the steady thump of his heartbeat. "Moz, when I read this song, I'm hearing you sing through a suit of armor. Where are you in it?"

His hand falls back into his lap. He closes his eyes and thinks of the black notebook. The one that holds pain, humiliation, ineptitude. "You wouldn't like what you see if I showed you a song with me in it."

"Try me. Please."

Yes, Morrissey is desperate. He wants The Smiths to be, as Johnny said, the best fucking band in the world. He walks to his satchel and pulls out the black notebook. Wordlessly, he flips it open and extends it toward Johnny's half of the room. Johnny will have to get up. He'll have to cross the distance if he really wants to see this. He can feel a gentle tug as Johnny pulls the notebook from his hand. This is it. Johnny is going to see all Morrissey's self pity and failures. It's all in that notebook. What does pity sound like as a song? He can hear some scuffling and the clang of guitar strings. Curiosity gets the better of him and he turns around to see what is happening.

Johnny is scowling. He is changing guitars. Oh God. If the red guitar was good enough to play a song he didn't like, what does it mean when it's not good enough to play this one? His gaze drifts over Johnny's shoulder to the blank wall behind him. A gentle tune plays. He can pick out sadness and regret in the notes. Yes, this is correct. But wait. Now the melody is harsh and thrashing. Johnny is churning out an angry riff that sounds like punk. It is fast and vicious. Morrissey thinks back to the words he knows Johnny read from the notebook. How can they possibly go together? Instead of the self pity and humiliation he felt while writing them, this music has turned his words into anger, righteous indignation and disgust, not at himself, but at his lover. Moz is dumbfounded. This is the right tone for his words. How did Johnny figure it out when Morrissey himself could not? He is jolted back to the here and now by what must be a neighbor angrily pounding on the wall.

Morrissey stares at Johnny who is now flushed and sweating. "We really need a rehearsal space, mate." 

Johnny always knows how to put him at ease. He says the right things at the right time and breaks the god-awful tension. "You really captured the emotion of the song, Johnny. Even your neighbor was moved by it." They share a laugh and Johnny unstraps his guitar and sits down on the bed.

"I could feel you in it, Moz. It made me mad. How could someone treat you like that?"

Morrissey feels exposed. Is this what Johnny feels like when he plays? Moz doesn't like it. He needs his suit of armor. "Perhaps it's a half truth. Maybe it is pure fiction." He says this to Johnny, as he sits beside him on the bed. He did embellish the song here and there, but it is essentially the sum of all his failures at physical relationships. He seriously doubts Johnny will be thrown by his smokescreen. The guitarist’s thin arm settles across his shoulders and he jumps from the contact. He can feel his tension transfer to the younger man. Resting his head on Johnny's shoulder, he lets out a sigh of resignation. He needs this. He craves Johnny's touch and doesn't want to lose it. The black-haired boy gently strokes his back. Moz is melting. His tension and insecurity fade away.

"Is this how it works?" Morrissey asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you guitar gods clairvoyantly translate your singers' lyrics into sound and bewitch their souls?"

There is a pause before Johnny answers. "I couldn't say. It's never happened to me until now. And I would argue that the lyrics cast a spell on the guitarist. At least in my case."

Johnny is now stroking Morrissey's hair. He closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation of Johnny's talented fingers ruffling his quiff. He could stay like this forever. What he wouldn't give to relive this day over and over again, minus the argument, of course. He needs to tell Johnny this. But when he raises his head and looks at the younger man, all his words evaporate like steam. Johnny's eyes are almost amber. The longing is still there. And something else. Something Morrissey hasn't seen before. Johnny's hands cradle his face. He rests his hands on the smaller man's shoulders, tentatively exploring the silkiness of the hair on the back of Johnny's neck. That neck, gloriously long and graceful. Morrissey licks his lips and Johnny gasps. 

Did he really make Johnny gasp? By licking his own lips? Moz slowly runs his tongue over his lower lip, his eyes never leaving Johnny's face. He watches, amazed, as the young man’s pupils dilate. He takes the bold step to pull the boy's face closer and brushes their lips together. His partner opens his mouth and moans. He can feel that moan reverberating in his chest, dancing in his fingertips, twisting his stomach into a knot of desire and hardening his cock. This is what he's read about in books. This is how it is supposed to feel. This is why Linder is so hung up on sex. It takes his breath away.

Johnny reaches for Morrissey's hand. He leans his cheek into the older man's palm. Morrissey can feel the gentle scratch of stubble along his fingers. He shivers with delight. Johnny gently leads him down his body, to his thigh. "Do you want to feel what you're doing to me?" Johnny asks.

He leans in for another kiss. He cannot get close enough. Johnny’s voice is so husky. Morrissey has never been this hard. Does Johnny feel the same? What might this lead to? The throbbing sensation between his legs leads to an ache deep within his body. He licks his lips again (he can't help it, honestly!) and nods as Johnny guides his hand to his crotch. Now it's Morrissey's turn to moan. He can feel the heat of Johnny's arousal. He traces the bulge with his thumb. "So hard. So powerful," Morrissey gasps in disbelief.

"All because of you, Moz." Johnny grinds into Morrissey's hand. Oh God. He wants this boy with every fiber of his being. Morrissey doesn't know what to do. He'd like to rip off his clothes and then rip off Johnny's clothes and feel Johnny's entire naked body pressed against his naked body. But that might be a bit much. He really has no idea. This is the first time he’s felt crazed with need.

Johnny pushes Morrissey back on the bed and straddles him. Then he leans forward, thrusting against Moz’s hips and kisses him, deeply, passionately, open-mouthed. This is so good. Moz whimpers against Johnny’s mouth. Their tongues tangle and their clothed erections create a delicious friction. This is better than books. Far better. Morrissey takes Johnny's face in his hands. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Me either," Johnny murmurs. "I wanted to kiss you since the last time we were together. Maybe before that. I didn’t think you felt the same way. And you said you were celibate."

Morrissey blushes and laughs. "That was Linder's fault. She put that stupid idea in my head. I'm usually not interested in sex."

Johnny gently rocks his hips against Morrissey's. "I don't believe it."

Moz sighs. "I guess I'm celibate for everyone but you."

"I like the sound of that," Johnny says as he slides lower to nibble the taller man’s neck.

"Johnny," Morrissey is suddenly shy.

"Yes, love?"

"Can we go slow? We've only known each other a week. You may not like me once you get to know me. I don’t want you to regret, well, anything..."

Johnny sits up and slides to one side of Morrissey’s hips. "Of course we can go slow, baby. And I don't see how it's possible not to like you, especially the longer I know you. Each new discovery is more exciting and wonderful." He takes Morrissey's hand and kisses it.

Morrissey is overcome. He wants to tell Johnny about earlier tonight when his music made him understand himself better. He wants to tell him how amazing it is to feel desire and to be desired. But his words aren't there. His words are failing. If only he could write them down. His written words never fail. Then he remembers the recorder in his satchel.

"Stay there," he cups Johnny's face and rubs noses with him before he retrieves the recorder.

"What's this? Were you recording us?" Johnny's eyes are huge with wonder.

Morrissey turns beet red. "No! I wanted to surprise you when the moment was right. And I think the moment is right."

"Well, let's hear it, then" Johnny's face is eager. Morrissey still can't believe that this is real.

He presses play and Johnny grins when he hears his guitar intro to his Ronette's riff. He listens raptly as Morrissey's vocals kick in over his guitar.

"Hand in glove. The sun shines out of our behinds. No it's not like any other love. This one is different because it's us..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this ending isn't too cheesy. Again, thanks to everyone who has read this entire story! I appreciate your kudos and comments!


End file.
